


Pluviophile

by therjolras



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, Multi, Rainy Days, bahorel loves the rain, bro moments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-27
Updated: 2013-09-27
Packaged: 2017-12-27 19:20:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/982647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therjolras/pseuds/therjolras
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>pluviophile (n) a lover of rain; someone who finds joy and peace of mind during rainy days</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pluviophile

**Author's Note:**

> Forgive me as logophilia is taken to new heights. Also, I think that at the end of each of these little fics I'm gonna post a headcanon. here goes nothing!

Bahorel slammed the door behind him, shaking out his shaggy hair like a dog. Courfeyrac, seated by the door as if waiting for him, was caught in the shower of rainwater and swore.

“Couldn’t you wear a hat?” He demanded.

“Why the hell’d I do that?” Bahorel said. “I love the rain.” He bounded up the stairs with the Centre at his heels, stray rainwater from his jacket flying into Courf’s face.They entered the back room in a train of colorful language, more stray rainwater, and a great creaking and groaning of the stairs (ancient, wooden, and reliably obnoxious). Enjolras didn’t even have to guess who was coming up; he looked up as the door banged open, and nodded to Bahorel. It looked less like the rioter had gotten caught in the rain and more like he’d been out jumping in puddles. “‘Lo, Boss,” he said. “It’s raining!”

“Yes, it is,” Enjolras said. “I take it you’ve been enjoying yourself?”

Bahorel nodded, grinning the grin that made him look like a harmless teddy bear (according to Courfeyrac) even when his face was a mottled mess of bruises (which was not the case today) and entered the room, followed by Courfeyrac, who looked like he’d been sprayed in the face with rain. “I have, Boss,” Bahorel said. “Love the rain. Have you any idea how badass nature is sometimes? It’s awesome.” He unslung his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair, then bounded off to greet Prouvaire and Feuilly jointly, by bestowing upon them both an enormous hug. Courfeyrac in turn saluted Enjolras and collapsed into a chair next to Combeferre. “Bahorel,” he announced, “needs to get a hold on himself.”

“If he did,” Combeferre said, “He would not be Bahorel.”

Enjolras, having nothing to say, pointed to Combeferre as if commending his point. Courfeyrac threw up his hands, then jumped as the opening chords of ‘Thrift Shop’-- in violin-- blared from his pocket. Whipping out his singing phone, he sent a frantic text and put it back on the table, now silent. “Aline’s going to be late.”

“It’s not meeting night,” Combeferre said. “Everyone’ll be showing up when they please.”

“She was supposed to be here right after class for something,” Courfeyrac said, “but apparently she’s been held up-- oh, for the love of--!” He broke off, as Bahorel had opened the window.

He was leaning out of it, getting his face and shoulders battered by the rain; what rain got past him was flying into the room. Prouvaire seemed to be enjoying it; he was laughing, his eyes closed, sitting quite directly in the area of effect. Feuilly, on the other hand, had begun at once to move all his pile of books to a table as far from the window as he could get-- which in this case was the table where Enjolras and Combeferre and Courfeyrac were sitting. “Bahorel, sometimes,” Feuilly muttered, and Combeferre nodded. “Sometimes.”

“All the time,” countered Courfeyrac, and got up from his seat, leaving his phone behind him as he approached the window.

“Oh, dear,” Combeferre said in a dry tone that sounded more amused than concerned. Enjolras settled into his seat to watch, not suppressing a small smile-- even when Feuilly caught his eye and smirked. An explosion of colorful language interrupted whatever words they might have exchanged; Courfeyrac had sought to extract Bahorel from the window and had received a heavy cuff to the head for his trouble. Within a moment, Prouvaire was on his feet and joining the tussell, hauling on Bahorel as Courfeyrac struggled to close the window.

“It’s getting cold, friend!” Bossuet shouted.

“oh, quick, shut the window before you all catch cold!” Joly said, half a laugh.

Grantaire simply watched, and laughed over the top of his glass.

Eventually, they pulled Bahorel away from the window and slammed it shut. Bahorel resolved this almost at once by putting his coat back on, bowing low to the whole room, and promptly exiting.

Courfeyrac re-joined Enjolras and Combeferre at the table. “Five says he’s gone out to frolic in the rain.”

“You know, Courfeyrac, that is the strangest thing I could ever imagine Bahorel doing… and I’m not going to contest it,” said Feuilly.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, headcanon of the day: Joly is a sandwich Wizard. I mean, he's a health-nut and all but his sandwiches are to Die for.


End file.
